


god will provide

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Aftermath of character death, Angst, Canon Compliant, During Canon, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stewards looking out for other stewards, terror bingo 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Edmund is in the process of preparing afternoon tea when rumors of an insidious kind race along the fissures in the ice until it crawls along the encased sides of the ship’s hull, worming their way through the wood and into the crevices of the steward’s ear.There is a bloody limb being carried back to the ship, like a coffin in a funeral procession.
Relationships: Edmund Hoar & John Bridgens
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	god will provide

**Author's Note:**

> written for the terror bingo prompt: **The Ladder**
> 
> also heavily inspired by the recent news from Parks Canada about the artifacts found aboard HMS Erebus!! I got emotional about one (1) captain's steward and had to write this.

When the commotion near the blind compels Commander Fitzjames and several men to chase after the noise on the ice, Edmund secures himself to his pantry.

He is no fool; he knows the dangers of the Arctic, as well as he senses the alarm surrounding Lieutenant Gore’s strange death. But he leaves the task of plotting to his superiors as he lets his worries run loose among the silver and porcelain of his tea sets and cutlery.

Edmund is in the process of preparing afternoon tea when rumors of an insidious kind race along the fissures in the ice until it crawls along the encased sides of the ship’s hull, worming their way through the wood and into the crevices of the steward’s ear.

There is a bloody limb being carried back to the ship, like a coffin in a funeral procession.

The leg is not a Marine’s, though there is an abundance of them where they are armed to the teeth for the bear.

Nor is it another lieutenant’s, their numbers dwindling with the gaping hole left by Gore’s absence.

The limb remains a mystery, neither officer's nor seaman's, and it is simple to cast any concerns for it out of his mind.

Edmund is in the great cabin clearing the table when the damning news truly reaches him. He flinches when the door slams open. Commander Fitzjames stumbles in, his face contorted and red with exertion. He doesn’t look Edmund in the eye when he barks at him to leave. His normally jovial voice is thick with tears.

When Edmund stands frozen by the table, Fitzjames once more snaps at him to go. Edmund stares wide-eyed as the commander falls into one of the chairs by the window and curls onto himself, his hands covering his face.

Edmund’s trance is broken when Lieutenant Le Vesconte enters the room, and — sparing a long, silent look at Fitzjames — he places a conciliatory hand on Edmund’s shoulder.

“Leave us for now, Mr Hoar,” he says in low murmur. “We’ll fetch you, should we need something.”

Edmund swallows thickly and nods. His hands fidget with the kerchief between his fingers as he exits the cabin, nearly colliding with one of _Terror_ ’s lieutenants as he does so. He mumbles an apology, his salute sloppy as he frantically looks over the officer’s shoulder in time to see Captain Crozier following Dr Stanley to the sick bay.

Sir John is nowhere to be seen.

Edmund does not need to hear the Marines’ tired re-telling of the attack nor witness the younger one’s teary eyes and pale faces to know what happened.

Nausea wracks through his midsection, and Edmund rushes to his pantry before he upends his stomach onto the lower deck’s floor. His heart races as he shuts the door behind him, the wooden panel doing nothing to keep out the noise and conversation outside.

_It got Sir John_.

_Threw him down the firehole._

_All they found was his leg._

The nausea grips him again, and Edmund presses his hand tight to his chest as he doubles over. A few deep breaths later, it abates somewhat. He straightens, looking to his left where he had set out the tea service, each cup patiently waiting in its saucer.

Without thinking, he had chosen the maroon set with the delicate gold trim. Lady Jane supplied the wardroom officers with the tea set, and it was thus an unspoken favorite of both Edmund’s and Franklin’s.

Edmund reaches for one of the cups. It is terribly small in the palm of his hand. He thinks to himself how easy it would be to close his hand tight, snapping the bent handle and cracking the rim.

His fingers claw around it, but he cannot bear to apply pressure stronger than a feather’s touch. Slowly, he lets himself slide to the floor, his legs folded under him, his back pressed against the bulkhead. He cradles the cup to his chest as though it were a wailing child, as though it were not he who was blinking away tears and holding his breath lest he sob.

The door to the pantry opens. The men are singing outside, and it is to their mournful tune that a tear falls from his overflowing eyes and blots his neckerchief.

Quickly, someone moves inside, shutting the door. Edmund takes no heed of the other man’s presence until his figure blocks the light from the lamp.

“Edmund?” Mr Bridgens’s voice is quiet, hardly louder than the muffled song from the crew.

Edmund sniffs pitifully, too ashamed to lift his face as more tears fall, the golden rim of the teacup catching the drops. Bridgens crouches before him, a scant groan in his throat when his knees creak. Large hands clasp around Edmund’s though Bridgens does not take the tea cup from him.

The gesture is frightfully similar to one Sir John gave Edmund this morning as he helped him dress for the day. Edmund ventured to ask him about the bear, the beginnings of fear making his voice quake, and Sir John paused his own grief, covering Edmund’s hands with his own; the touch itself far more intimate than anything Edmund had shared with his captain, despite his daily proximity to the man.

_‘Not to worry, son. God will provide, and that bear will be no more. You wait and see.’_

Edmund has half a desire to share the story with Bridgens, but he cannot find the words to do so.

Bridgens is also quiet, despite his loquacious nature. He gives no empty reassurances, perhaps seeing wisdom in silence, as there are no promises that could effectively close the cavernous wound festering in Edmund’s chest.

The song in the lower deck comes to a close at the same time Bridgens adjusts his weight so he may sit on the floor beside Edmund. He releases Edmund’s hands in the process, and Edmund is relieved to see his fingers have slackened around the tea cup.

The silence following the song is heavy, and the small pantry grows ever snugger the longer the two of them sit side by side, their grief swelling and rising to each dusty corner of the room.

After a moment’s hesitation, Edmund asks, “What will I do?”

He does not know if Bridgens understands the agony prompting the question. It is not a query of how he should grieve Sir John nor what he must do for tea. It is the loss of his daily rituals, the ingrained comfort he finds in their monotony: the polishing of silver, the tidying of the captain’s bedchamber, the planning of meals, the regulating of their stores, the dressing and undressing of a man old enough to be his grandfather.

_What is a captain’s steward without his captain?_ he almost asks.

The words are halted by a sob as Edmund closes his eyes tight and he once again begins to slowly crush the tea cup in his grip.

Bridgens is gentle when he wrests the cup from him, setting it aside as he ushers Edmund into his arms. Distantly, Edmund wonders if he should be disgusted with himself that he is letting himself cry like a boy, in the embrace of a man whose reputation Edmund has heard sneered by the other men on board.

He hides his face until the crying subsides, continuing to stare at the floor when he extracts himself from Bridgens. Once he’s wiped away most of the moisture from his cheeks, he risks a glance at Bridgens. There is no reproach on his face but a sad smile, his eyes crinkling with sympathy when Edmund’s lips begin to quiver again.

To answer Edmund's question, Bridgens pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry about the rest of today. Mr Aylmore and I will handle the meals and the officers.” He gives him a smile and another pat. “All things pass, and so shall this.”

Edmund nods. He swipes at his face as Bridgens stands. Now that the tears have stopped, Edmund feels rather empty, and an action as simple as standing seems beyond him.

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to find the strength to move when Bridgens’s hand enters his vision once more; calloused palm up, fingers open and inviting.

“You don’t have to go it alone,” Bridgens assures him with such authority that for a second Edmund believes that he is right.

This too shall pass. He takes Bridgens’s hands and lets him pull him up.


End file.
